


Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bisexual Character, Dom/sub, Dominance, Dominatrix, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Gay aroace character, M/M, Male dom/male sub, Oral Sex, Oriented Aroace, Pegging, Spanking, Submission, Voyeurism, aroace character, female dom/male sub, not a threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27635593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Moriarty takes Moran to meet someone new, resulting in Moran's submissiveness being tested in a different way
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/Mary Morstan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

**Author's Note:**

> The only explanation I have for this is:
> 
> \- I started reading through the notes in The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes and came across this gem: “Robert J. Bousquet, in “Mary Morstan: Clothed in Euphemism,” makes the suggestion (humorously, one hopes) that Mary Morstan was employed as a “governess” in the sense of a dominatrix in the Forrester brothel” 
> 
> \- There is really not enough fic in which Sebastian Moran gets pegged.
> 
> Also to clarify: in this there is sexual/physical interaction between both Moran and Mary, and Moran and Moriarty, just not really simultaneously

“There is someone I want to introduce you to,” Moriarty had said, and Moran had presumed that he meant a business associate perhaps, or maybe even a friend, although that seemed far less likely since the Professor doesn't appear to have any other real friends.

When they arrived at the building which was unmistakably a brothel – a high-class one, but still a brothel – Moran was suddenly a little less sure, although it is not exactly unheard of for business meetings to take place in such a location even so.

Now he is not really sure at all what is going on, as the Professor leads the way into a private suite of tastefully-decorated rooms. As well as various chairs, a table, a sideboard and a few other more ornamental items there is also a large bed in here, which definitely suggests what the intended purpose of this particular room is.

“Moran, Miss Mary Morstan.” Moriarty greets the lady standing in the room cordially, taking her lace-gloved hand and kissing the back of it delicately.

She is a fairly petite woman, attired in a dress of a pale blue colour, with her reddish hair done up artfully on top of her head, a few strands of hair falling down either side of her face. With her soft blue eyes and pale, slightly freckled skin there is an air of undeniable innocence about her, yet something about that impish look in those eyes and the slight twist of her mouth as she regards Moran belies something else much darker barely hidden beneath the surface.

“Miss Morstan, my companion, Colonel Sebastian Moran,” Moriarty says.

“Miss Morstan?” Moran says, tilting his head slightly to regard her. “You were Mrs John Watson last I heard.” He had seen her then, accompanying her husband, at a couple of gatherings he didn't want to be at full of people he didn't like but was presumed to have something in common with, all of them being ex-army men. He had wondered back then why the doctor was with her when he seemed to be far more interested in tailing around after that wayward detective. He and Mary had not actually met then however; Moran had only observed her from a distance.

“And now I am Miss Mary Morstan once more,” she says, still smiling slightly. “May I offer you a drink, gentlemen?” She gestures towards a silver tray on the table bearing three glasses, with an ice bucket holding a bottle of champagne beside that.

“A drink would be most pleasant, thank you Miss Morstan,” Moriarty answers.

“Are we celebrating something?” Moran asks.

“If you like,” she replies.

“Well why are we here?” Moran enquires, watching the Professor follow Mary over to the table.

“Is that a philosophical question, Sebastian?” Moriarty asks, smiling.

Mary too seems amused as she pours the bubbling champagne into the three glasses. “You haven't told him?”

“Told me what?” Moran, not liking the feeling of people conspiring behind his back, crosses his arms across his chest even as Mary holds out the glass of champagne to him. He waits a second or two before unfolding them and taking it from her. “Thank you,” he says, unable to bring himself to be impolite to her.

“I am aware, Sebastian, that you have certain tastes, some of which I share, many of which I do not. Your taste for the fairer sex, for instance. Thank you.” Moriarty takes the champagne which Mary proffers to him. “It is not something I understand, but still, it intrigues me.”

Moran takes a sip of the champagne, narrowing his eyes as he considers where exactly this conversation seems to be going.

“And I thought perhaps, Miss Morstan here might be to your tastes.”

Moran's gaze snaps up and he stares at the Professor briefly before looking to Mary. She is very lovely, no doubt about it, and moreover still he has the unmistakable sense about her that there is far, far more to her than meets the eye.

“I know how to cater to many men's tastes,” she says, running her finger around the rim of her own champagne glass. “As a governess, I learned a great many tricks about how to manage the rather more _recalcitrant_ pupils.” She smiles, so coyly that Moran would swear his cock just jerked inside his trousers. “And you, Colonel Moran, with your Eton education... I've encountered other men who attended there too, and who came away with, shall we say, a taste for _discipline_.”

Moran swallows thickly, hoping he doesn't look as flushed as he feels suddenly. He takes a gulp of his champagne, trying to ease the sudden dryness of his mouth.

“He is a darling, isn't he,” Mary remarks, speaking to Moriarty now. “Look how coy he seems suddenly.” She steps forward and puts her hand beneath Moran's chin. It feels so small and slight and yet he allows her to easily tilt his face up again, so that he can meet her amused gaze. “And so perplexed.”

“Of course I'm bloody _perplexed_ ,” he says. He brushes her hand away then and looks towards Moriarty. “Why'd you bring me 'ere? What is this, some sort of test of my loyalty?” The idea is deeply offensive to him, and yet it does not really feel like something the Professor would do.

“Why would I need to test your loyalty, my dove?” Moriarty enquires.

“Then why...?”

“Amusement.”

Moran's eyes narrow again. “Yours?”

“Mine, yours, Miss Morstan's too. I suspected that she might be to your tastes, and you to hers, and by the looks of things it would seem I was correct in that suspicion.” He smirks slightly as he glances down towards Moran's groin.

“You're saying you want me to...?” Moran is not sure how to express this, it seeming wrong somehow to be crude about it. “To lie with her?” He rubs the back of his neck, still trying to puzzle this out. The Professor is so inscrutable at times, and he is possessive and domineering yes, but then Moran does also get the sense that the idea of allowing his lover to lie with another person, instead of provoking jealousy in him, actually excites him.

“I am saying...” Moriarty sits down in an armchair, crossing his legs at the knee, and sips his champagne. “The idea of watching you with Miss Morstan here intrigues me, if the pair of you are amenable. Miss Morstan, perhaps if you were to show him some of your _toys_...”

Moran knocks back the remainder of his champagne, wondering if he's going slightly mad.

“Of course,” Mary says, and strides over to the sideboard, the heels of her boots tapping smartly on the wooden floor. She opens the cupboard door beneath and takes out a metal box. “Sebastian,” she calls peremptorily, “come here.”

He puts his glass down and walks over to her. It does not even occur to him to hesitate or refuse. Besides, he is genuinely curious now.

“Hold out your hands,” she instructs as she places the metal box on top of the sideboard and lifts up its lid.

He does so, half-expecting her to take out a cane and strike him across his palms in the manner of some strict disciplinarian teacher, and hell, if that thought too doesn't also seem to make his prick twitch.

But she does not strike him. Instead she takes out an object that is both new to him but also oddly familiar, and lays it across both of his hands.

“You understand what this is for?” she asks, talking in that governess's tone of voice, both gentle and strict, implying she cares about educating him but that she is not a woman to be toyed with.

He nods, glancing up at her.

“Answer me properly, please,” she commands.

“Yes.” He hesitates, wondering what exactly 'properly' means. “Miss Morstan,” he adds.

She smiles, not only at his agreement but at his acquiescence. How easily he slips into the submissive role even towards her. “Does your depravity know no bounds, Sebastian?” she asks.

“Not really, no.” He grins wickedly, pausing before adding, “Miss Morstan.”

He does understand what the object she has placed in his hands is – he has had one much like it used on him before, by Kitty Winter, but that was before he committed himself to the Professor. It is a _phallus_ (he supposes that is the best word for it), an artificial one of course, though one rather larger than most of the real ones he has encountered in his life, attached to a configuration of leather straps, most of them padded for the wearer's comfort (the comfort of the one on the receiving end of it meanwhile is probably considered much less important here).

He suspects too, the majority of men would back away right now – even a great many of those who have had a real prick inside them before might shy away from the notion of a woman using this artificial one upon them - tossing the thing aside in horror and consternation. But Sebastian Moran is not the majority of men, and he is not even new to this sort of experience. What is new however is contemplating this with someone he barely knows, and also the Professor's continued presence here, for Moran can hardly forget that his lover is still right here in the room, even if Moriarty has said nothing for some moments.

“You would like me to use that upon you, wouldn't you?” Mary says. It appears to be a question, superficially, but everyone in the room knows truly it is a statement.

“I...” He swallows. He will never admit that he is uneasy; that he cannot wholly trust her yet, even if the Professor seems to regard her as trustworthy, and that the idea of letting her use this device upon him, it excites him, yes, but the idea of having his back to her, of giving up his control to her... that frightens him.

From his chair Moriarty watches him still, understanding this even before Moran speaks again.

“Yes, Miss Morstan, but...” He looks down, blushing slightly, not in shame at the notion itself but more at his own unease; that and that this talk of being intimate in such a way with another person is occurring right in front of Moriarty. Rather helplessly, Moran looks over towards the Professor. “Sir?”

“Yes, chick?”

“I've been loyal to you all along, I can't just... forget that.” For as many times as Moran has been tempted by others of either sex, he has never succumbed to temptation, and he is proud of that, and while this cannot surely be considered as cheating, not if it is the Professor himself who has proposed it, still the idea of being intimate in such a way with anyone else... it feels very strange indeed.

“Yes, my dove, you have, and that is why I feel you deserve a reward of a different kind now.”

“And you want to stay, to watch this?”

“Yes.” Moriarty raises an eyebrow, just slightly. “Unless that idea upsets you?”

“No! No, I...” He wants the Professor to stay, to remain in overall control here, but at the same time he still has no desire to offend him somehow.

“Well then.” Moriarty idly runs his finger around the rim of his champagne glass, in the same manner as Mary, although her fingers were still gloved then whereas his are bare and thus he produces a strange eerie sound briefly. “This is not a betrayal, pet. I simply want to see you surrender, Sebastian; I want to watch this from a distance; see you give up your control to someone else for once, whilst knowing that _I_ have orchestrated this.”

“But what if you...” What if you get too jealous, is what Moran wants to say, and there's a thought there, dimly, somewhere in the back of his mind, niggling at him like a slight itch, that what if the Professor does get jealous of Mary? Will that not end badly for her? Moran barely knows her, but he would not wish to be responsible for her death simply because the Professor found out that he couldn't bear to see Moran with anyone else after all. But then he does know the Professor better than anyone else seems to, and he does think, Moriarty is not as petty as that. “What if...”

“Poor Sebastian,” Mary says, gently taking the phallus on its harness from his hands. “So confused by his own desires.”

“I'm not confused by that, I just...”

“Be quiet,” she says.

But he can't help himself; nervousness makes him far more prone to answering back. “I just 'aven't done anything like this since...” Moran glances back at Moriarty again. “Since before _him_.”

“Be. Quiet.” She slaps him lightly across the face, but there is no anger on her face, only a look of tenderness.

“Right Miss Morstan.”

She cups his face momentarily, far more gently now. “Sebastian, you are allowed to say no to this.” She tilts his chin up so that he is forced to meet her gaze. “Do you wish to say no?”

Despite her holding his head still, he manages to glance sideways at the Professor.

Moriarty gestures idly with one hand. “Your decision, Sebastian, not mine.”

Moran looks back towards Mary. “No,” he says. “I don't, Miss Morstan.”

She smiles, her eyes glittering with amusement as she strides towards the bed. “Then come along, Sebastian.”

He follows her, looking over towards the Professor again, but Moriarty only looks back, both eyebrows raised and a small smile still on his face, which seems to indicate that Moran should simply go along with this, and who is he to argue with that?

Mary tosses the phallus onto the bed and turns to face Moran. Gripping his jacket, bunching the fabric in her gloved fist, she tugs him towards her. She slips her right hand around the back of his head and pulls him down, for she is shorter than he is even in her high-heeled boots, and kisses him fiercely on the mouth. Something about her assertiveness reminds him inexorably of the Professor, and he cannot quite keep back a groan of pleasure, which only intensifies when she pushes her fingers through his hair and pulls on it. Her left hand drops from the front of his jacket, downwards, and she slides it inside his trousers, quickly finding his cock beneath the layers of clothing. Her slender gloved fingers wrap around it, squeezing gently, and he practically shudders, so achingly aroused already.

“So impressive, Sebastian, and you are so eager,” she says, “but ah, no, not yet.” She pulls her left hand from inside his trousers and drops her right hand down too to give him the lightest slap on the cheek.

He has changed practically before her eyes, his pupils gone very wide and his manner becoming ever more submissive, but when he looks back at her there is still something provocative there, the same as the Professor has seen in him many times, for Moran is rarely passive even in his submission. Perhaps it is the slap, as light as it was, that has truly changed him, as if some lever has been pulled and switched something inside him. Before he was still uncertain, but now... he is in his element.

“I want you stripped,” she says, and he nods.

“Yes, Miss Morstan.”

She helps him out of his jacket and waistcoat; he tugs off his tie himself; she unbuttons his shirt although he would happily pull the thing off over his head without undoing most of the buttons first. His trousers, boots, stockings, underclothes, all are soon removed, leaving him standing before her, under Moriarty's intense scrutiny too, completely bare, and very obviously aroused.

“Get on the bed,” she commands. “On all fours, face down.”

“Yes Miss Morstan.” Moran glances across at the Professor, something challenging too in the look that he gives to him.

Moriarty's involvement here, it appears minimal, for he has no desire for women and precious little even for men, but it does intrigue him very much, to see Moran like this, and even to see Miss Morstan in such a position of power over his lover. Moran knows too that the Professor is still in charge here overall; he would not have consented to this if this were not true, his old mistrust of most of humankind resurfacing without the Professor's controlling hand.

Moriarty knows, certainly, that Moran is afraid, still possessing a terror of putting himself in a position of vulnerability around most people. But he also knows what a powerful _erotic_ effect such fear can have on the Colonel.

“Face forward!” Mary says sharply, and slaps Moran hard on his bare backside.

He hisses, less in pain, more in surprise, though he is grinning as he turns his face towards the headboard. His cock is rock-hard by now, jutting up between his slightly splayed thighs.

“All right, Professor?” Mary calls over to him. “Is the view from where you are good enough?”

“Perfectly good, thank you.” From his position he can see Moran more or less sideways on, which suits Moriarty very well. He stretches across to the table and catches hold of the champagne bottle, pouring himself another glass, and he sees the mischievous look on Moran's face as he sneaks another glance over towards him.

Mary delivers another sharp slap to Moran's backside. “Eyes to the front, Sebastian.” She trails her hand down over the reddened mark where her palm struck his flesh.

“Yes Miss Morstan.” But he only slowly drags his gaze off the Professor's, provoking him as much as he is provoking her.

She laughs slightly as she moves towards Moriarty. “Professor, if you could just undo this, at the back.” She half turns, so that the back of her dress is towards him.

“Of course.” He sets the champagne glass down so that he may lean forward and help her unbutton the dress.

“Thank you, Professor.”

“You're welcome, Miss Morstan.” When Moriarty says her name like this, it is entirely different to the way in which Moran says it. Moriarty's tone conveys respect and courtesy – genuinely meant – but not submission. He smiles at her, and she smiles at him in return, not entirely able to make sense of him and his strange desires, but they still share an understanding of sorts.

Stepping away from him, she drops the dress down, off her shoulders, down her arms, letting it slide down her body and fall to the floor. She then carefully draws off her lace gloves, letting these float to the floor also, so that she stands there now only in her corset and underskirt, and her stockings and those patent leather high-heeled boots of course. Her pale face is growing a little more flushed by now, her chest too, not only because the room is fairly warm but because also the sight of Moran kneeling naked on all fours before her is a very interesting sight indeed.

“Keep your eyes straight ahead, Sebastian,” she instructs as he tries again to take another peek at what she is doing, giving him another sharp slap on the bottom to remind him of his place.

“Yes Miss Morstan.”

“You seem to have immense difficulty in obeying orders, Sebastian,” she remarks. “Is he always this obstinate?” she enquires of the Professor.

“Usually, yes,” he replies with a sly smile. “It is often necessary to _chastise_ him.”

“One would have thought this an undesirable trait for a soldier,” she comments, as she takes up the phallus on its harness and begins to put it on, sliding the straps up her legs and then settling it properly into position.

“Why'd you think I got made to leave the army?” Moran enquires, still grinning.

“If you don't be quiet I will have to gag you,” she tells him. “And that would be an immense pity, to have to do that, and waste all that potential in that pretty mouth of yours.”

“Sorry,” he says, narrowing his eyes slightly as he considers her meaning here. “Miss Morstan.” And even now he still cannot resist sneaking back another glance, to see this slim, beautiful woman standing there behind him, in her corset, her stockings, her high-heeled boots, and with a large and erect _prick_ sticking up from beneath her underskirts.

This seems to amuse her though, even to please her, that he looks now, and particularly that his look is clearly so admiring, and so needy.

“Will you behave now?” she asks, stepping towards the bedside table briefly. On it stand numerous bottles and jars, some in plain glass, some coloured. She selects the one made of green glass and moves to stand behind him once again.

“I can't promise anything, Miss Morstan.”

“A pity.” She removes the stopper from the bottle and tips a small amount of its contents onto her hand. “That you seem determined to make things so... _difficult_.” And she smiles again as she kneels behind him and pushes one oiled finger inside him.

It is very sudden, very abrupt, and he shifts slightly at the intrusion, but he is well used to such things by now and though he barely knows her and usually having his back to someone he barely knows would set off his fight or flight response, things are different now, because the Professor is still close by, his expression unreadable still, but certainly watching the proceedings intently. Although Moran tenses, just a little, he relaxes after a second or two as she withdraws that first finger slightly before sliding it back in, adding a second alongside it. He shivers though even though the room is warm, with a fire blazing in the hearth, but he cannot help himself as she eases those two fingers deeper into him. It doesn't hurt exactly, but this time the intrusion is much more noticeable.

“You are very used to this,” she observes. “Having things inside you.”

He says nothing to this, though off to the side Moriarty smirks slightly. Moran is thinking though, she seems very used to this too, to preparing a man this way.

“So how well can you take three fingers, hmm?” Mary enquires, and before he has time to think about this she is indeed sliding a third finger inside him, and though her hands are small – much smaller than the Professor's – he can still truly start to feel the stretch now.

He had no real idea what to expect from her initially, how experienced she was with such things, but she evidently knows what she's doing, using just the right balance of pressure and gentleness, so as not to damage him. Still something coils in his stomach, something perilously close to fear, to panic, but for him there is always such a fine line between fear and arousal, and often that line blurs or dissolves entirely.

He takes a deep breath and bows his head, willing himself to relax, letting go of his tension in a shaky exhalation, and Mary, observing him all the while, waits patiently, until the moment he says, “ _Please_.”

He hears her rather than sees her pouring more oil over the phallus, and the creak of the bed-frame as she shifts position slightly again behind him. And now there is hard, steady, blunt pressure between his buttocks, demanding entrance, and she pushes slowly but steadily, until the head of this artificial prick breaches him, slides in, fills him up. It's much bigger than her fingers, bigger than most of the pricks he has ever had inside him, stretching him, opening him up, making him burn, but when he groans it is not from the pain of it but entirely from pleasure. It is hard and unyielding, not really like a real prick, but the way it opens him and fills him up feels too good and he cannot stop himself from pushing back onto it, trying to get every inch of it inside him even faster.

“God you are a needy little thing aren't you,” Mary says, laughing as she continues to drive it into him, and she sounds truly amused, and looks it too, when he glances back at her again. She withdraws from him, until only the very end of the phallus is still within him, before shoving back into him again, beginning to set up a steady rhythm, in and out, in and out. Despite her relatively small size she is very strong when she takes him, even rough, very thoroughly _fucking_ him, and this disparity between her slight build and ordinarily rather demure manner and the forcefulness of her movements as she takes him and thoroughly subjugates him, it is pushing him ever closer to the edge without his own prick being touched.

She is thrusting into him harder, pushing him down into the now crumpled sheets, which he creases up even further by grasping them in his fists, clinging onto them as she pounds into him, and all the while Moriarty watches this, watches his lover, his Sebastian, being _sodomised_ by Miss Mary Morstan. He seems dispassionate, detached still, unmoving and unmoved by the sight and by the moans of pleasure Moran is emitting. But really, even the Professor is not unmoved, and he is immensely interested, observing and filing away this sight in his memories. At last he leans forward a little, all the better to savour the moment.

“If I may make a suggestion,” he says at one point, and Mary pauses, glancing over at him. “You might pull on his hair again whilst you are taking him.” She nods her agreement at this suggestion before resuming what she had been doing.

“You love this, don't you?” she says to Moran, bending over his back as she takes him. “Being filled, being used, being _fucked_.” Such an obscene word coming from such a pretty mouth, and it makes Moran groan with pleasure again, or perhaps that is simply from her changing the angle of her thrusts slightly, so that every time she pushes the phallus up into him it is stimulating that sweetest spot inside him. And she reaches up, grips his hair in her hand, tugging his head back, and the sharp sudden pain of that on top of her words, on top of her ploughing into him, planting the phallus deep inside him, it is too much to be borne any longer.

Moran spends with a choked cry, his cock pulsing underneath him, spilling across the sheets beneath his stomach. He is panting, breathless, and so is Mary, as Moran collapses beneath her, sprawling onto the now soiled sheets. She lets go of his hair, letting him lie fully face down.

“All right,” she says. Running her hand down his back, moving to push herself up slightly. The movement makes the phallus slide out of him and she rolls off him, drawing the underskirts up so that she can unfasten the straps enough to slide the thing off. She herself has not yet climaxed, though she is close to it from a combination of the device pressing against her intimate parts and from the sheer thrill of dominating a man like this in such a manner. She _could_ finish things herself, she supposes, but then where would be the true enjoyment in that?

From his seat Moriarty still watches, his expression still far from understandable even to Mary. But when she looks to him, a question in her glance, he nods, almost imperceptibly.

“Sebastian.” Dropping the phallus on its harness aside, Mary puts her hand on Moran's shoulder, pushes him over, turning him onto his back. He looks up at her, his pupils still very wide, his blue eyes seeming very dark, and his gaze is slightly unfocused, but comprehending well enough as she moves over to straddle his face, hoisting up her underskirts as she settles herself above him, her cunt above his mouth. “Finish it now,” she commands him, and obediently he reaches up to clasp her thighs, pulling her down further, and like this he can barely breathe, barely think, but he licks and laps at her, tasting saltiness on his tongue, until at last Mary throws back her head and, with her body spasming around his tongue, she reaches her own completion with a sharp cry.

After a few seconds she slides off him, kneeling beside him, looking down at him, caressing his face briefly. Now he appears even further adrift, even less aware of what is happening, but the look he gives her is immensely fond.

“Sebastian, pet.” It is Moriarty's voice which cuts through his somewhat dazed state, and Moran's gaze drifts over to meet his as the Professor appears by the bedside, stripped to his shirtsleeves.

“Professor.” Moran smiles up at him. Moriarty smiles down at him, and then his hand, much larger than Mary's, is on Moran's face, stroking him.

He sees Mary slide off the bed, adjusting the underskirts around her hips and thighs as she does so, and he tries to rise but Moriarty moves his hand to Moran's collarbone and presses him down into the bed again.

“Ah, not yet. Miss Morstan may have had her pleasure with you, but _I_ have not finished with you yet.”

“Oh?” Moran seems wholly unperturbed and unsurprised by this news. He feels too tired to move and thoroughly limp after being taken by Mary and after his own climax, but Moriarty is pulling him up again, turning him over, his hands gripping Moran's hips to draw him up.

“I'll leave you to it,” Mary says, picking up her clothing. There is no resentment in her voice, simply mild amusement. Her part here is done, her own needs have been thoroughly sated, and she would rather like to freshen herself up, so she retreats into the next room to do this, leaving the Professor and the Colonel alone.

Despite his weariness Moran makes no protest at the Professor's intentions, even trying to push himself back up onto all fours as behind him the Professor unbuttons his own trousers. Moran wants this, he _needs_ it. Moriarty pulls Moran's hips up, puts a hand on the back of Moran's neck, pins him into place.

“Sir, did you...” Moran tries to formulate a question but he forgets what that question is before it's halfway done. _Did you like what you saw,_ he is trying to say, although it seems fairly apparent actually that Moriarty did approve.

“Shhh, be quiet,” Moriarty says softly, stroking a little more of the oil over his length, coaxing himself to full hardness, although this time it takes very little effort to achieve that.

Not for the first time the Colonel is amused by the Professor's composure. Few men could probably manage to look so composed while being so obviously _excited_ , for it is very clear to him that for all his detachment and his inability to feel much of what Moran feels for people, when seeing his lover being taken by another, Moriarty's body is still immensely responsive. Perhaps jealousy acts as an aphrodisiac for him, Moran thinks.

When the Professor slides his cock into him it is very different to how it was with Mary. There is the fact that it is a real organ of course – warmer, stiff but still softer even so – and though Moran has never had any complaints about its size, it is neither as long nor as thick as Mary's artificial one. But it is more than that. Although Moriarty too is rough with him, somehow when it is the Professor taking him it feels like... like coming home. He did submit to Mary, did allow her take control of him, but really all along it has been only Moriarty he is truly _surrendering_ to.

Again there is that feeling that really Moran can never quite get enough of, of being filled in a way which perhaps should feel wrong and alien but somehow feels absolutely right. The slide of the Professor's length into him is a little easier than usual, the Colonel having already been stretched open by Mary's phallus, and it starts off slowly, Moran gasping as the Professor thrusts inside him, letting out far deeper moans as the Professor begins to fuck him rather harder and deeper, carefully angling his thrusts so that every time he is sliding against Moran's prostate. Moran's cock is only half-hard now and with it being so soon after his climax, he thinks he cannot possibly manage another yet, but his body seems to be determined to try its best in this regard. His eyes slip closed and all he can think of now is the Professor behind him, on top of him, inside him, and wonder at the aggression of Moriarty's thrusts now. Is this his possessiveness asserting itself? Almost certainly yes, this is the Professor making it clear that while he may permit others to play with his Moran from time to time, that is always at his instigation, and in the end Moran is always _his_. That thought should terrify Moran perhaps; it doesn't; it comforts him, and despite the intensity the rhythm of the Professor's thrusts is oddly soothing somehow, even when it changes slightly, becomes rather more staccato, indicating to him that the Professor is very, very close to his release.

When he finishes, spilling inside the Colonel, Moriarty bites down hard on Moran's shoulder, and the pain of that twists itself into pleasure, and Moran spends again too somehow, a trickle of his seed spurting from his still only half-erect prick to add to the mess he has already made of the bed.

Overwhelmed by sensation, exhausted, Moran feels Moriarty gently lowering him to the bed, and the Professor's lips softly brush the back of his neck, kissing him gently.

“All right, Sebastian, all right my dove, rest now.” When Moriarty draws his prick out of the Colonel, Moran practically whimpers at the loss, though he seems to have little awareness any more of what he is doing. He is much too far gone currently to comprehend what is happening.

Moriarty wipes himself off and tucks his softening length back into his trousers, rebuttoning them as Mary comes back into the room. She has redressed, with her hair, which had been falling loose around her face, pinned back up properly.

“Would you mind...?” She gestures towards the back of her dress, which is still unbuttoned.

“Of course.” Moriarty obliges her, deftly refastening the small pearlescent buttons. She puts her back to him so easily, he thinks, being strangely trusting of him, but then a lot of people are, even some who know truly what he is capable of.

“There is plenty of hot water in the next room, and fresh towels,” she tells him, turning to face him. “I suppose shortly you shall both wish to clean up properly.” She smiles up at him, and he smiles back.

“Yes, we shall.” Lightly he rests his hands over her hips, though it is difficult to actually feel much of her body through the layers of clothing. He wonders very vaguely, very abstractly, what it would actually feel like to bed a woman. Mary is very charming, very fascinating also for her open-mindedness, but still though she does not appeal to him in any way that would allow this to come to pass. He cannot seriously imagine even indulging in some manner of _experiment_ with her himself, although it has certainly been a most interesting and enlightening experience, allowing Moran to have such intimacy with her. “Thank you,” he says, and he takes her hand again and kisses the back of it gently. “For all of this.”

Mary laughs. “You make it sound as if I got nothing out of this. I enjoyed every moment of it, believe me Professor.”

“You would wish to do this again sometime perhaps then?” he asks.

“I would like that, if he wants to.” She looks over towards the bed, where Moran still sprawls, his eyes closed. “That is, if we did not break him.”

“It will take more than that to break him, believe me Miss Morstan. Sebastian here is practically insatiable.” Moriarty smiles as he turns back to the bed. Lightly he pats Moran's backside. “Wake up, chick.”

“'M not asleep,” Moran slurs, though his eyes remain closed.

“Come on now, get up; those sheets will need to be changed soon, and we need to get cleaned up.”

“Yes sir.” Moran forces his eyes open and sits up at last. “You know I can probably barely walk though currently.”

“You don't need to walk far.” Moriarty takes his hand, guiding him off the bed, steadying him with both hands around his waist when Moran's legs almost buckle under him.

“If you are all right with him, I will leave you to get washed,” Mary says.

“Yes, we are perfectly all right. Thank you again, Miss Morstan.”

"Thank you Miss Morstan,” Moran echoes, grinning. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” he says and starts to laugh softly.

She laughs too, giving his face the briefest caress, then she leans towards the Professor and gives him a soft peck on the cheek which, surprisingly, he accepts without any resistance.

“What is it between you an' 'er?” Moran asks, when she has left the suite entirely.

“She is a useful person to know,” Moriarty says, leading Moran into the next room, where there is bathtub and a good supply of hot water and plenty of thick clean towels.

“ _Useful_.” Moran laughs, considering exactly what use Moriarty has just recently put the woman to. “You like her,” he says, as Moriarty helps him into the bathtub.

“Is there some reason why I should not?” Moriarty queries, handing him a bar of soap. It smells oddly floral, not like something he would ordinarily use.

“Didn't think you liked women much, that's all.” Moran lathers up the soap and washes himself. “And one who was married to that Doctor Watson... thought that'd give you extra motivation to loathe her.”

“I make no judgements about women, at least not based solely on their sex. I have always been on perfectly friendly terms with your Miss Winter. And Miss Morstan is most fascinating. Her marriage... was a mistake. We have all made those, Sebastian.”

“Even you?”

“Even me. Be sure to wash yourself _thoroughly_ , Sebastian.”

“Yes sir.” And he does, though he winces a bit at it, and Moriarty, his sleeves rolled up, pours the warm water over Moran's head, down his back and his chest, sluicing away the soap and the sweat, along with... everything else.

Moran closes his eyes again, still wearied and content to allow the Professor to take charge again for a minute or two. He doesn't often feel like this; it is only their more intense games which leave him with this feeling, somehow very very happy and yet oddly empty at the same time.

When he is washed and dried Moriarty brings him his clothes and helps him into them. Moran attempts to button his shirt but he is still caught somewhere between a strange sensation of floating somewhere beyond his body and the feeling that his body is made of lead and too heavy to move, and his hands feel oddly nerveless. Eventually, with a small sigh, Moriarty gently shoves Moran's hands down and fastens the buttons himself. So close to him again, Moran leans forward, breathing in the Professor's scent.

“What are you thinking?” Moriarty asks.

“That you smell better than me.” Moran sniffs at himself, at the scent the soap has left on him – lavender and something else, perhaps. “I smell like a fucking tart's boudoir.” He laughs.

“I don't know, I rather like it,” Moriarty says. He helps Moran into his waistcoat, fastening this up without even allowing Moran to try this time. Once the Colonel is fully dressed again Moriarty smooths down Moran's hair. “There,” he says. “You look almost presentable again.”

“Yeah, now nobody'll know from looking at me that I've just been buggered six ways from Sunday,” Moran says, grinning. “Aside from the fact I can't walk straight any more.” Rather gingerly he sits down on the nearest chair to wait for the Professor to finish his own toilet.

Moriarty, putting his cufflinks back into his shirt's sleeves, smirks. “Do you regret coming here then?”

“Course not. Why, do you?”

“Not at all. Tonight's events have been most... _illuminating_.”

“You're a rum one sometimes, Professor. You tell me I am to remain exclusively yours, then you bring me 'ere, to do this.”

Moriarty scrutinises his own image in the mirror, examining his appearance from different angles. “Are you telling me, chick, that there was any point during tonight's proceedings where you forgot whose you truly are?” he asks, glancing towards Moran in the reflection.

Moran looks down, smiling still. “No sir,” he admits, even though Moriarty already knows the answer, of course. “I could never forget that.”

“I am glad to hear that.” As he pulls his own jacket back on, the Professor leans over and kisses Moran lightly on the forehead. “Come along then, my dove,” he says, and holds out his hand to help Moran back onto his feet. “Time to go home.”


End file.
